


picking up the pieces

by the_roci



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M, let them rest, soft boyfriends, they get what they both desperately deserve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-08
Packaged: 2020-01-07 02:04:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18400922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_roci/pseuds/the_roci
Summary: It’s not shocking really, realizing that he can spend the rest of his life gently following the curve of Eliot’s body.orAfter the monster, Quentin and Eliot have a quiet moment.





	picking up the pieces

Flames reflects off his glass as Quentin takes a sip of Merlot. Everything is quiet in the cottage, still in ways it hasn’t been in months. Slipping into the welcome silence, Quentin feels impossibly warm, relaxed in a way he thought he’d never get to feel again. Not after getting caught in the mudslide that was the Beast and everything that kept caving in on them afterwards. And while it’s temporary, this peaceful bubble they allowed to fall over them tonight, he lets himself float in it, pushing away thoughts of the past few weeks and everything with the Library that’s still left to resolve. 

The soft murmurs of their friends has turned into a gentle silence, cocooning him until all he can think about is the soft pop of the fireplace in front on him and the solid press of Eliot against his shoulder. A small and practical part of his brain nudges him to get up, to help Eliot to his feet and get him back into bed so he can continue to rest, but even that voice fades in the tranquil haze that surrounds them. 

In the safety of the dim light of the living room, Quentin feels another thread of the knot that’s formed in the center of his chest loosen. It’s still there, the tightness that constricted every time his mind screamed no, but his body kept on with the course. Picking up rocks heavy enough to sink a body and shoving food aside when he was almost too weak to get up from the couch he was sitting on. But it’s enough to have him breathing a little easier, it’s enough for him to close his eyes and not hear the world cracking around him. 

Wine mixes with the already intoxicating feeling of having Eliot at his side and Quentin has to take a second to steady himself. Because this isn’t a dream or wishful thinking. Eliot is solid and real and for the first time in the week since he returned, he was strong enough to join everyone downstairs as they celebrated their win. And while he drifted off before everyone said their good nights, it was another small step towards a destination Quentin never allowed himself to give up hope on. A future where Eliot was back, safe and alive, and if not exactly well, he’s finally on the road to recovery. 

Sure, it will take time, but they’ve got the time to spare now that the world isn’t going to blow up around them. Turning his head, Quentin lets himself get lost in the rise and fall of Eliot’s chest. He’s breathing so soft and easy that it causes a momentary pang to spark in Quentin’s chest. Because Eliot is free of the monster but the repercussions show in the bruises that run down his neck and the deep-seated exhaustion that’s rooted in his bones. Quentin isn’t a master healer, no better able to help Eliot now than he was when the Monster finally let go of its hold, leaving Eliot limp, nearly lifeless as Quentin cradled his body and screamed for someone to help. But he knows the easy smile he saw tonight was a beginning. The first step to actually healing.

Without overthinking, Quentin reaches out, running a gentle finger along Eliot’s forehead and wishes that a simple touch could be enough to sooth the damage done to his body. Avoiding patches of purples and greens, Quentin drags his finger down Eliot’s cheek, along his jawline before it eventually drops off his chin completely. He repeats the pattern- once, twice, three times, four. The rhythm is calming, pulling Quentin in until the rest of the world fades into the background and there’s nothing that exists outside of pull of his fingertips. It’s not shocking really, realizing that he can spend the rest of his life gently following the curve of Eliot’s body. 

Q doesn’t falter when he looks up to see hazel eyes watching him. Doesn’t shoot his hand back to his lap or offer a stammering apology. Maybe it’s the wine or his own sleepless nights short-circuiting his brain. Or maybe it’s just because this is Eliot and Quentin never had to worry about being anything but himself in his presence. 

So all Quentin does is smile, offering a gentle ‘Hey,’ that feels as fragile as Eliot looks.

'Hey,' Eliot responds, voice quiet with sleep. And it's not the time, but Quentin can’t help the way his mind shoots back to another era, a different world, when his joints were stiff, overworked and protesting from a day of being hunched over a puzzle that seemed insurmountable yet inconsequential in the hovering presence of Eliot's lips. 

Or the many times they found themselves here. Sat in front of a fireplace with wine stained lips as they navigated the bumps and curves the world refused to stop throwing at them. 

Everything is different now. They are different now. They’ve lived lifetimes and killed Gods, traveled between worlds and timelines and fuck if it’s too much to think about right now, but throughout it all, Eliot has been right there by his side. Helping Quentin create something beautiful, something comforting and safe, and uniquely their own. Quentin really doesn’t know what would have happened if he had lost it all. 

"I was just debating waking you up,” Quentin says, voice soft. “Thought you’d be more comfortable upstairs.”

Eliot blinks slowly, his eyes soft and wet. "Throw a blanket at me and I don’t think my body cares where it lands.” He laughs slightly. “It’s just like Cabo, except everything hurts and not in the good way.” Eliot leans further against him, the flicker of flames highlighting his features in all the right ways, “this feels good though.”

Resting his head against Eliot’s is the easiest decision Quentin’s made in weeks.

They haven’t talked about it – about them. Not really. Eliot needed to recover before Quentin laid everything on the line again and he needed to get his own head on straight before he could even consider gathering the strength needed to make that happen. Add on Kady needing help with the Hedges and Julia’s Goddess issues and there really wasn’t a lot of time for him to sit down and figure out what he wanted to do with the situation.

It only recently struck him that while he was focusing on everything else, the silence between him and Eliot was already speaking for them. 

The desperation in Eliot as he pulled Q against him, the soft press of his thumb against Quentin’s hands as they rested. Every kiss Quentin placed on Eliot’s forehead and the way Eliot would always ask him to stay, just a little bit longer. Q knows he should wait until they have the time to reestablish the boundaries Eliot set in place, just like he knows he has to keep his hope in check, but he can’t quite help the way his body instinctively leans towards Eliot’s. 

All he wants to do is feel the solid thump of a heartbeat and the warm tickle of breath against his neck. To wrap his arms around Eliot and finally get a good night’s rest. Because his body remembers the ghost of a touch during a long Fillorian Summer and now all he wants to do is get lost in it. But he doesn’t want to push, so he settles on pressing his nose into Eliot’s hair and breathing. Deep, long breathes until the familiar scent of Eliot seeps into his muscles, soothing the dull ache that’s burrowed inside them. 

Letting out an almost painful breath, Quentin finally let’s himself stand down. It’s over. They won. 

Eliot shuffles under him. “You okay?” 

Quentin nods and places a hand on Eliot’s thigh to keep him from moving. “Yeah,” he responds, and the weirdest thing is that he means it. Things aren’t okay, exactly, but they could be worse. Nothing’s on fire and cities aren’t being uprooted by a psychotic monster. At least, not yet. And if it’s not happening yet then that means they can take a moment to regroup before the next clusterfuck gets thrown on them. “Is it weird that I kind of feel fine? At least, for the moment?”

“Considering this is essentially our baseline, I’d say you get a pass.”

It’s easy to smile into black curls, easier still to stay pressed against each other as the fire slowly begins to burn out in front of them. Molten red embers beg to be fed but Quentin can’t be bothered to attend to them. Not when Eliot is still pushing into him like he belongs here. Like he needs this just as much as Quentin does after what’s happened. 

They remain tucked against each other until: “Thank you.” Said so quietly Quentin almost doesn’t hear it. Eliot stays pressed against him for a few seconds before shifting, untangling himself enough to turn and fully face him. There’s something damp about his eyes, something deep and beautiful. “I know the last few months have been hell and that’s largely my fault. You could have saved yourself a world of hurt if you’d just given up on me, but you didn’t,” Eliot half-mumbles and it looks like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Whatever comfort Quentin wants to offer sticks in his throat as looks at Eliot. The man he was willing to sacrifice the world to save. Who is strong and kind, every bit the King he was destined to be, but also broken. So set on believing he’s dispensable. Quentin is ready to spend the rest of his life making sure Eliot knows exactly what he’s worth. 

“El, I couldn’t.” And maybe it’s dumb, reaching out a hand to press against Eliot’s face, or maybe it’s inevitable. “I was ready to set the fucking world on fire if it meant getting you back.”

Eliot laughs, soft and sweet. “Yeah, well, you’ve always been the brave one,” he murmurs before covering Quentin’s hand with his own. His thumb is hot, making everything seem distant as it brushes against Quentin’s fingers. Eliot turns further into the touch then and it shouldn’t be possible for something so simple to ignite all of his nerve endings, to make him feel like he was going to burst. 

Eliot kisses his palm before bringing their hands into his lap. His eyes are still wet, heavy and dark with the dying light around them. Before Q knows it, the low light of the room becomes thick with the pressure that’s been building between them. Years of being together, of moving together are building like storm clouds and while all he wants to do is close his eyes and gather his bearings, Quentin can’t quite bring himself to break eye contact. Eliot is close, open and vulnerable in a way he only remembers seeing back at the cottage. 

“Q,” Eliot says, and for a second, it feels like the world rumbles. 

Something flutters in his chest and part of him thinks it should be painful but it just feels full. “El-”

Whatever he is going to say disappears in the gentle swipe of a thumb against his lips. “I’m going to need you to hold that thought, I’m kind of doing a thing here.” And it’s too much, too overwhelming for Quentin to fully process, but he can’t help the way his heart surges towards Eliot. “Look, I’m not brave, never have been. Everything I’ve ever accomplished has been purely the byproduct of circumstance and luck and frankly, I’m really not sure how I’m sitting here right now, but that has to mean something, right?”

Quentin wants to stop him. To tell Eliot that everything he’s accomplished has been from his willingness to face challenges head on. For pushing through when things were at their darkest and never leaving his loved ones behind. 

“My life has a habit of not working out but I’m tired of expecting it not to. This whole black luck streak is getting dull, but it’s always been easier expecting things not to work out than to have-”

“Everything blow up in your face” Quentin finishes, thinking about a stairwell and Margo and a different version of himself thinking that love should be enough. Looking at Eliot though, it’s hard to completely silence the voice that says that maybe he was right, at least in part. “Have you ever stopped to consider how well that’s been working out for all of us?”

“It’s been a work in progress,” Eliot says. He takes a small breath. “Part of that is realizing that turning you was the dumbest decision I’ve made in an incredibly long and very detailed list of terrible decisions.”

All at once, it feels like something breaks. Cracks right down the center of Quentin but all he can feel is relief. “There have been some bad ones, huh?” Quentin says, his tone playful despite the atmosphere keeping it soft. And maybe he should say something more profound, something deep and poetic that’s been rolling around in his head, but he’s tried, so terribly fucking tired, and right now, he just wants to fall into Eliot and never climb out. 

“Don’t get cocky, Coldwater,” Eliot warns but his hand travels to the back of Quentin’s neck. It feels familiar, as warm as the smile on Eliot’s face. “You’re not getting this conversation on repeat.” 

The gentle teasing breaks the tension, making everything feel gentler, softer. “You’re not getting out of talking about everything,” Quentin says, unable to help himself from sinking into the touch. Letting it heal wounds that are still closing from the last time they had this conversation. But Quentin recognizes this for what it is, a second chance, and new beginning, and timelines and alternative universes be damned, he knows he can’t waste it. “But maybe we can skip to the part where we just get to be together? A least for tonight?”

“Oh, thank god,” Eliot says. “I think I’ve surpassed my emotional quota for the week.” Then, more gently. “Let’s go to bed?”

Quentin takes off his shirt after maneuvering Eliot up the stairs. It’ll be good to get him back to Marina’s, easier for Eliot to navigate the apartment as he adjusts to his body, but the thought it cut short by Eliot wrapping himself around Quentin’s waist. Everything becomes muted then, dulled in the most delicate way, and Quentin lets himself be pulled into a silence so gentle, not even his own thoughts can penetrate it. 

“I missed you,” Eliot says, tucking his face against Quentin’s shoulder. Puffs of breath tickle the tips of his hair and the shiver that runs down his spine is nearly melting. 

Pushing his head against Eliot’s, Quentin closes his eyes against the warmth that’s pooling in their pockets. “I missed you, too.” 

Dragging his hands along Eliot’s forearms, Quentin pulls at them until Eliot is impossibly close, contoured against him until every breath is solid against this back. Heat radiates from where Eliot’s hands have secured themselves at his sides, fingers working gentle circles into skin Quentin wasn’t sure he ever wanted to be touched again. But this, pushing his hand up Eliot’s arm until it’s securely tucked around his neck, is all Quentin ever wants to feel again. The safety of being tucked inside the arms that know every dip and groove of his skin, the comfort of being surrounded by the smell that lingers on his own clothes and always reminds him of home.

Pulling away slightly, Quentin turns on his heels until he can cup Eliot’s face with his palms. Stare into heavy lidded eyes that he knows almost as well as knows himself. And Eliot let’s himself be swallowed whole, opening himself to Quentin without a shred of pretense or carefully constructed walls. 

Eliot drags his hands up Quentin’s back, pushing into muscle. “I know I fucked up, Q,” Eliot nearly whispers as he kisses his forehead. “But I want this to work. I’ll do whatever I have to,” he finishes, lips still brushing against skin. 

"We'll work on it," Quentin says, and yeah, it's naive, but he really believes they can do this together. “One step at a time.”

“One step at a time.”

Quentin’s heartbeat is still too erratic and his pulse is throbbing in his temples, and all he wants is to feel Eliot against him. With a gentle tug, he guides Eliot towards him until they're caught in a kiss that has the world stopping around him. The drag of Eliot's lips is anchoring, steadying Quentin even as his head his tipped backwards. Everything turns molten, honey thick and slow as he opens his mouth to Eliot and drinks the awestruck hum that results from the deepening contact. 

Eliot doesn’t open his eyes when they break apart. 

“Can I?” Quentin asks against Eliot’s lips, tugging on the bottom of an ill-fitting sweater for emphasis. 

Eliot nods, compiling by pulling his hands upwards. He doesn’t waste a second bringing them back together once his sweater is removed. This time the kiss is soft, deep and searching like Eliot’s been wandering the entire world trying to find his way back here. Quentin smiles into the kiss, his fingers traveling the length of Eliot's chest. There’s still so much to talk about, so much to figure out and examine, but Quentin has done enough overthinking for the both of them. For now, he lets himself reacquaint itself with Eliot’s body, happy that he’ll fall asleep wrapped around each other, that he gets to relearn the sound of Eliot’s heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I'm not even caught up on season 4, but somehow, I needed to get this post-monster fic out of me. This is my first queliot fic, and if everyone enjoys it, I have many more planned! You can find me on [ tumblr ](http://the-roci.tumblr.com) and my inbox is always open for prompts!


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